


A Portrait of the Devil

by Sangsue



Category: Star Wars - All Media Types
Genre: F/M, Slow Burn, old timey
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-09-07
Updated: 2018-09-11
Packaged: 2019-07-08 01:18:25
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,770
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15919995
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sangsue/pseuds/Sangsue
Summary: Loosely inspired by thinking about the Portrait of Dorian Grey.AU Where magic and science converge. Madeleine, orphan and apprentice at the Guild of Depiction, where People can commission portraits to keep themselves, or the things around them, perfect for all eternity. The subject may never look upon the painting, nor destroy it, or all is reversed. Tragedy causes her, once a rising star in her guild, to be shamed and outcast/ One day, a mysterious young man walks into the Guild hall and requests a portrait for of himself. Despite her better judgement, she gives in and truly understands what her trade means.





	1. Chapter 1

“I want you to paint me.”  
It is midday when a large, dark haired man walks into the Guild. The door has barely closed behind him before he is delivering his demands. It takes her a moment to register it, because no one usually comes here, least of all unannounced, and he is a remarkable looking figure. Everything is an exaggeration, from his long limbs, to his large nose, and it takes her a moment to get over the fascinating proportions he presents before responding.   
“Are you certain?”  
He nods. She puts down her paintbrush and her palette, leaves it on a table beside a bouquet of flowers. The blooms are fresh and bright, the petals pink and vibrant. One glance at her canvas shows brown, bare, dropping flowers, petals dried and scattered along the table cloth.   
“I haven’t done it in a while. Living things. Humans, I mean.”  
“I understand.”  
Paintings like this cannot be done in the front room. She gestures for him to follow her into one of the backrooms, leaving a single strand of yarn on the door knob to make sure that none of the other Artisans barge in. There are no windows, which she prefers to work by, so the lighting is not as good but she there is less likely to be disturbed. After trying the gas lamp and finding the bulb blown, she settles for lighting a few candles. He is silent while she shuffles about, collecting the necessary materials. New paintbrushes put at her work station, fresh from the package. New paint pots placed before a fresh canvas. She places on a new smock, just to be safe, and ties up the darkness of her hair.   
“My Master should be back soon. He’s much better at this, never an unsatisf-”  
“It will be you.”  
She nods again, filling a new bottle with paint thinner and sitting at her station. She gestures for him to go before her, to either sit in the stool or stand.   
“You can remove your coat. If you want.”  
The man nods and removes his dark overcoat, placing it on the nearest chair. Now she is able to observe him again, and with each moment that passes she finds a new oddness to his features, the slant of his chin and the largeness of his ears. For a moment, unbuttoning his vest, their eyes meet, and she notices their darkness. The scruff of unshaved hair on his face.   
He is handsome, she decides.   
Looking away, he continues to undress, though she does not remember suggesting that. He removes his cravat, then starts to remove his shirt. She pauses, staring at him before realizing that he probably does not wish to be gawked at. The man came here for a purpose, to be immortalized. Still, averting her eyes is difficult when he’s exposing a broad, pale chest with each unclasped button.   
“I haven’t done this in a while,” she repeats, clearing her throat and swallowing hard.   
“You already said that.”  
She hesitates once more before revealing to him why he should wait for her Master or for one of the more talented Artisans. There is a reason she is the only one here, tasked with the low risk job of painting the perfect bouquet, and not on a house call for other clients. There is a reason she should have told him no immediately.   
“The last time I did it I… I failed. And the girl-”  
“I’ve heard the stories.”  
He pulls off his shirt and throws it on top of his jacket. Then he looks at her expectantly. “Whenever you’re ready.”  
She nods, more in affirmation to herself than to him. Her hands shake when she reaches for the first paintbrush, thin tipped and long stemmed, to trace him out on the canvas. Before she can speak again, however, he stops her. “Do you have a smaller one?”  
“I’m sorry?”  
“A smaller canvas.”  
“Oh.” She looks at the board in front of her. Usually when people commission her work they want it on large, ornate canvases, better to display. Rising and returning to the materials, she turns to show him various smaller sizes. It isn’t until she reaches the practice boards, only four inches by six, that he nods.   
“Ok,” she remarks, returning to her seat. “Please, sit if you want. Make yourself comfortable. This will take a while.”  
She expects him to take the spare chair and sit in it, somewhere in her line of sight. Probably angle his head so that she can make out the sharp line of his jaw or watch the dark hair at his brow fall into face or on his bare shoulders. Or maybe he will stand, so that she has to turn her gaze up and he will look dramatic, painted in that perspective.   
She does not expect him to climb on the table and sit atop it, legs crossed and back straight. He is still above her but now, so much closer, he looks larger than life.   
“Is this ok?” he asks, as if her expression has given away some surprise.   
“Yes. Yes, this is fine. Whatever suits you,” she looks back and forth between him and the small canvas. How will she fit him there? “I need… from you.” An empty pot is pushed over by her fingertips, he stares at it for a moment before understanding. “I’m sorry, but it’s important for the proce-”  
“I understand.” And she watches as he slashes through his palm with a blade he seemed to have pulled from nowhere. Heavy red drops spill along the table before he squeezes his hand into a fist and lets a steady stream fall into the empty paint pot. She watches it fill before becoming both nauseas and transfixed by the deep color.   
“What’s your name?” she asks, to distract herself.   
“Does it matter?”  
“No. No. I just wanted to know.”  
“It’s better if you don’t.” He pulls his fist back and wipes the wound on his pant leg. The black fabric is darkened with the wetness. “Is that enough?”  
“Yes. That’s fine.”  
It takes her seven hours, without break, to complete the painting. The hours are passed in silence. He asks no questions, she makes no suggestions. After tracing out his form in red on the white surface, she steadily becomes less nervous and simply falls into the rhythm of creation. He doesn’t move much, shows no discomfort to staying in that position for so long. Twice someone tries to gain entrance into the room, twice they are deterred only when discovering that the door is locked. She can hear them muttering, the students who were once her peers, and then beneath her, and then her superiors. They wonder what she’s thinks she’s doing, behind closed doors. They wonder if thinks she’ll ever be a Master of Depiction.   
They wonder if she’s going to kill someone else.   
She falters at that, then looks back up at her subject. A single change, not to his face or to his stance, but to his body. His hands, which had originally lay flat on his knees, are now clenched into fists. Solid, large hands, like stones. She watches them for a moment, steady, solid masses, to calm herself, then goes back to trying to capture the jut of his brow.   
Seven hours, and then she is signaling for him to get off of the table. “It’s done. It has to dry, but that shouldn’t take long. Do you want to see it?”  
He looks startled, and he has reason to be. The portrait that she did today will be useless if he ever looks upon it. A waste, a potentially fatal waste, of whatever sum he paid to gain access to the Guild and her services. She quickly tries to allay his fears.   
“You can look at it before the paint sets. And I’ve even heard that people steal peeks at theirs through reflections, though I would not recommend it.” She taps her fingers against the surface of the canvas and finds it still wet, but only barely. “Do you? There isn’t much time.”  
His gaze lingers on the board for a moment, as if considering it, but then he shakes his head, solidifying his resolve. “No. I do not.”  
“Well. Give it a minute or two. Then I can wrap it and you can take it with you.”  
He shakes his head again, pulling on his shirt again. “No. You will keep it.”  
The apprentice, startled and still a little on edge, nearly drops the pot in her hand. “No. No, that is not allowed.”  
“You will keep it safe for me. I cannot keep it.”  
“But it is not allowed,” she repeats, before looking at his portrait again. It looks good, she thinks. Handsome. Sad.   
He turns to her again, pulling the cravat around his neck before beginning to retie the knot. Their eyes meet and he holds her gaze for a long moment before speaking again. “I won’t tell if you won’t.”  
He leaves without taking the painting, throwing his jacket over his shoulder and going to the door. She continues cleaning up, tucks his face into her notepad and turns to find him watching her.   
“Is there something else?”  
Reaching into his pocket, the man steps forwards and stops right before her. She has to bend her neck to look him in the eyes, and then his hand is in hers. Sliding money into her fingers. “I can’t accept this.”  
“I’m paying you for your services.”  
“You’ve already paid. I cannot accept this.”  
His large fingers keep the money in her hands and holds it there until – again- she concedes. “Fine. I’ll keep it.”  
He still isn’t leaving and she’s starting to feel warm, stuffy in this dark, dusty room. “What is your name?” he asks.   
“Apprentice Le-”  
“Your name. Not your rank.”  
She shifts, stuffing both hands into her pocket. “Madeleine. Do you plan on reporting me, or issuing a complaint?”  
He smirks and she feels warmer still. She still doesn’t know his name, feels at a disadvantage, but then he’s placing two large hands on her cheek and pulling her in for a brief kiss.   
“Goodbye Madeleine. Keep me safe.”


	2. Transfiguration

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Beginnings of a transformation

There are different reasons for someone to seek out the Guild of Depiction. Some people enjoy having tiny sculptures made, ballerinas that dance perfect forms across tables or dogs that scamper along the carpet to amuse children. There are some people who enjoy watching whimsical sketches that play along the page, a playful art that hangs on the wall, replaying a sweet moment over and over again. Madeleine had seen multiple instances when parents wanted copies of their children at play, running around in giggling circles, or newlyweds wanting the image of their first kiss in an endless loop. 

Portraits are different, and so the reasons behind them are different. Some people do it for vanity, wanting to stay young and beautiful looking forever. Many people do it for the novelty, have whole rooms dedicated to showcasing a piece of artwork that they will never lay eyes on. They throw large parties and invite guests over to admire and marvel at the skill, but also at the oddity of it. The paintings age and change as the patron does not, and Madeleine has been told that it’s a little jarring to peer into the wizened face of a friend, only to enter another room and see them young again. 

They are a huge expense, and a risky one at that. If the person looks at their painting, the effects are reversed. They age. Whatever damage they avoided, be it bodily harm or illness, that the painting took on, the person must now suffer. This is also true if the painting is damaged, Madeleine had seen whole commissions ruined by a single scraped caused by a moving accident. She had seen customers die after trying to destroy their paintings, as if driven mad by fear that they might one day look upon it.   
The artists are not allowed to keep the paintings, for liability reasons. Once the paint sets, the canvas is carefully wrapped and packaged for the customer. Once the painting has exchanged hands, whatever damages inflicted become the fault of the customer. A mistake can be costly for the Guild. 

It is for this reason that Madeleine hides the painting of the young man. She doesn’t tell anyone that he came in, despite the fact that he paid. Her Master paces the floor, waiting for him a few hours later to come in for his appointment. 

“I’m not returning his fee. It’s nonrefundable, even if he doesn’t show.”

“He’ll turn up,” she lies, thinking about the tiny canvas that is now tucked inside of a paper bag, hidden beneath her bed.

The older man’s eyes shift, then turn to her suspiciously. “Apprentice. You haven’t seen anyone today?”

“No.”

Perhaps she spoke too quickly, because he looks as if he doesn't believe her. "How are the flowers coming along?"

"Well," she responds, taking the chance to change the subject. "I'm almost done."

That night, by candlelight, Madeleine takes out that painting and gazes upon it. It had been difficult, and now that he’s not standing in front of her she can point out all the things she got wrong. 

She ponders it, again and again, why he would want to leave the painting with her. 

She also wonders why he specifically wanted her to do the painting, but she tries to ignore concern.

The more she looks the more she remembers his face. The darkness of his hair, the sharpness of his jaw. The fact that he was very tall, very broad. 

What makes the sides of her lips tilt into an involuntary smile, what makes her want to cover her face with her hands and hide, despite knowing that no one is looking at her, is the memory of his eyes. Dark, round, and intense. She remembers tracing the colors, trying to ring darkness and light. 

She looks at him every night, before sleeping, and then every morning, before rising up to perform the monotonous task of painting someone’s dog or someone’s bird, or someone’s flowers, and fights the urge to smile and giggle and place a hand over her hear to cover the strange, buoyant feeling rising in her throat. 

One day she is placing speckles on the petals of a foxglove flower and all she can think of is the marks on his face and on his chest when he finally bared his chest to her, and now she is blushing for a slightly less innocent reason. 

One night, she stares at the darkness outside of her window and thinks of his eyes, how she felt the weight of his gaze. 

He was beautiful, she remembers, and she will probably never see him again. 

He wanted to be depicted, and she will probably never know why. 

She overhears the sounds of a piano, dictating the movement of the dancing dolls, and for some reason the tune reminds her of the deep timbre of his voice. Her Master finds her leaning against the door, staring at the pianist’s hands, her long thin fingers, and remembering the few words he’d shared with her. The old man yells at her for her idleness, but she hears music for the rest of the day and sways, humming. 

She doesn’t think she will ever forget his voice, but she never learned his name. 

It is weeks later, weeks of musing and remembering and allowing this odd infatuation from a chance encounter to bloom. She is preparing for bed, the candle is already lit, when she notices something wrong with the painting. 

There is a smear on his cheek. Held up to the light, she can see that the color is red. A red smear on pale skin. 

Panic – and then – not again, and then she is trying, very delicately, to use thinner to remove the stain, whatever stain had marred his face. It’s with no avail, after minutes of gentle scrapping and trying, it doesn’t change. Madeleine would have probably kept trying until the early hours of the dawn, but the more she stares at his face the more she sees more wrong with it. 

The fullness of his mouth, which she had originally painted slightly apart with the slightest tilt upwards into an almost smile, was now more of a frown. And his eyes were-

Madeleine shoved the portrait back into the bag and did not look at it for days.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So this one is short, because i am both lazy and tired.   
> Good night everyone


End file.
